


Ishaara

by AllegoriesInMediasRes



Series: Jodhaa Akbar canon fics [8]
Category: Jodhaa-Akbar (2008)
Genre: Domestic Cuddling, F/M, Fluff, Missing Scene, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 15:30:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14240322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllegoriesInMediasRes/pseuds/AllegoriesInMediasRes
Summary: [Jodhaa Akbar]He only knows this is the most natural thing in the world.Oneshot.





	Ishaara

**Author's Note:**

> Direct sequel to Atmiyata but no need to have read that one. Set during the brief instrumental reprise of Jashn E Bahara post-arrow. Title means “gesture” in Hindi.

When Jodhaa wakes up after having falling asleep into his side, she says nothing. He says nothing. He remains still as she wakes up, orients herself, and then disentangles herself without making eye contact. She moves briefly beyond his view from the bed, and then the physicians are flocking around him.

She returns later in the morning, with bowls and cups. He knows this ritual well by now, and she perches on the side of the bed as always so that she can prop him up. She has one hand against his back and is bringing the cup to his lips when she pauses. Jalal draws back, crooking an eyebrow. Is the tonic not prepared right? Has his wound reopened without him realizing?

Jodhaa bites her lip, contemplating something, her gaze lowered as though ashamed. Then she raises her head, and he recognizes the fire in her eyes. She deliberately shifts further onto the bed, closer to him until she is sitting right next to him, and slings an arm around him. She is pressed up against him, as close as she was this morning, so close he can feel her breathing, her warmth, the swell of her chest as it rises and falls. This is the closest she has ever allowed them to touch, far closer than she needs to be in order to feed him.

She brings the cup to his lips once more, and belatedly he realizes that with her arm across his back and the other arm half in front of him, she is nearly _embracing_ him. It takes all of his self-discipline not to shift closer into her embrace, to focus on nothing but the cool liquid passing between his lips.

When the meal is over, she gets up from the bed to clear the dishes and bowls. Before she leaves, she passes a hand over his cheek, his brow, his hair. Every inch of him aches to anchor her hand with his own, to clasp both of them. He does not, simply focusing on the sensation of her warm skin against his own, likely clammy. Then she leaves, but not without leaving a lingering caress.

The physicians advise him to nap in the afternoon, but he finds that her touch has ignited something inside him, that leaves him restless and feverish. He wakes, again and again, to the ghostly sensation of a hand against his face, and his own hand reaching to clasp it.

Nighttime falls, and with it comes Jodhaa into his chambers once more, though he no longer requires attention at the end of the day. She is dressed in her loosest sleeping garments, without even a head veil. She dismisses the lingering attendants with a wave of her hand and douses the candles. When it is dark, she settles onto the bed, sidling up until she is lying right next to him.

“You are here,” he whispers finally, hoarsely.

“Where else would I be?” she whispers back.

She settles her head onto his chest quite deliberately, one hand curled up on his shoulder, the other raking his curls. Jalal watches her, not quite sure if this is a hallucination brought on by some prescribed physic. She lays there against him with such ease, such serenity: a contentment he has witnessed only from afar. Yet here she is now, willingly in bed with him, her apparent trust in him on full display.

He wriggles his good arm, until he has found where her hand lingers. He sends up a quick prayer for courage, and then laces his fingers through hers.

She tightens her grasp, brushing her thumb over his knuckles.

He does not know who falls asleep first; he only knows that she comes the next night, and the next, until it is the most natural thing in the world for him to shift to make room for her on the bed, for her to meet his every caress with one of her own.


End file.
